They rang, told me that you were hooked up
to a life support machine,
brain dead,
you who could think of seven things a second.
When I arrived, two days later,
they had put you in a closed coffin,
a white affair with silvery handles
and I was unable to see your face
not quite believing that you had gone.
Of course I could have asked them to open its lid
but everyone was grief stricken
and it was perhaps impolite to ask.
I went to the ocean which was dull, grey and heavy,
shouted my sorrow as the sea softly washed my feet.
Back on the road a police car was parked alongside mine
an officer drove me home in silence,
I was grateful for that
the poverty of useless words
were the last I needed.